Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I was born of hunger
born crying with a lust for air
I am tired now, and old
and still I am hungry and cold

I have no pot
four days now and a century yearning
have written eight poems today
nothing makes sense in the fabric
woof against the warp gnaws like hunger
the hunger I was born with.

I'm due the respect of rest
six advils to no avail, and traffic
like hunger in my belly thrashing
as it was at birth, smashed face
ravenous for life and discovery.

The point is that there is no point
the compass spins with no direction
my soul is a vagabond, sad erection
a hard-on for the next poem, the next
the next idea or superstition, the next
next nexus of understanding, promise.

I have no pot and the air is still with hunger
the hunger of my birth, eyes sealed with mucous
the growling in my belly is a familiar friend.
Hollowness is my ally, the vacuum is my comrade.

the next, the next hunger
want sealed in yearning
can't measure the girth of my
Desire.

I was born of hunger, the
restlessness of music and fear
every morning the page is blank
and stares at me with a smirk, daring
my inspiration. Daring me, saying next, next
next comes more hunger. I eat to the sound
of laughter, the laughter of famine and drought
diseases creeping in chronic appetite.

I have no pot, I'm hungry
hungry for the birthday of death and
satiation, the end of wonder and inquiry
sad and slippery and wet with fever
and with the sweat of birth and hunger.

I was born of hunger
and I have no pot.
you are my only meal
warm in my belly still
and still, and still
eight poems today
and still
and still.

oh no! No pot!??? how will you survive?

Try some of that Slim Shady coffee! Oh Oh Oh yeah!
Panama green bean in a brown bag...yessiree!

Have a happy fourth, and bless us every one...stay safe,
and be free. That's the way the Lord wanted it to be.